Barefoot in the Rain

  The faintest frown pulled. “What time is your appointment?”

  “He’ll see me.” Especially now that his wife had just left.

  “I’m sorry.” The woman angled her head, a practiced mix of pity and power in her expression. “You have to make an appointment, and that requires a referral, and to be perfectly honest, Dr. Bradbury has a one-year waiting list. We can provide you with the names of—”

  “He’ll see me,” she said sharply. “My name is—”

  “No.” The young woman held up her hand. “Please. If you don’t have an appointment, he will not see you. There are absolutely no exceptions to that rule.”

  “I’m the exception. Zoe Tamarin.”

  The woman didn’t move, leveling her icy eyes in a showdown. “Would you like the list of doctors I mentioned?”

  “No. I’d like to talk to Oliver. I’m a personal acquaintance.”

  The woman replied by dropping her gaze over Zoe, lingering on the thin tank top stuck to her sweaty skin. The white cotton skirt that had seemed so whimsical when she’d picked it up at Old Navy suddenly felt like a cheap rag compared to the receptionist’s silk and pearls.

  Red gave a tight smile and shook her head as she stood, easily six feet tall in four-inch heels. “I’m very sorry for your situation, but you need to leave, now.”

  Zoe just blinked at her. “My situation?” She didn’t even freaking know her situation. “Please call his assistant or whoever and tell him that Zoe Tamarin is waiting to see him.”

  After a moment the woman touched her earpiece, and Zoe let out a soft sigh of relief. As soon as Oliv—

  “Beth, we need security in the lobby.”

  Zoe croaked out a cough. “Excuse me?”

  The other woman completely ignored her. “Immediately,” she said into the air. Then, to Zoe, “We get a lot of desperate people wanting to see Dr. Bradbury, and—”

  “Well, I’m not one of them.” Which was a complete lie, but she stepped forward anyway. “Just give him my damn name.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that.” She looked down at her tablet, like something more important had come up.

  Zoe eyed the single door to the back, a nearly invisible slab of polished rosewood that blended right into the wall. But there was a slender silver doorknob that just might not be locked. What the hell did she have to lose? With one more glance at Red, who was pointedly ignoring her now, Zoe lunged at the door.

  “Hey!” the woman cried, but Zoe slammed down the handle and pushed.

  “Oliver! It’s me! Zoe!”

  Red got her then, grabbing her arm to yank her back to the lobby. “You will leave the premises, ma’am. Right. This. Minute.”

  Zoe fought the fingers, wresting her body away with every ounce of strength she had, and suddenly the woman let go and Zoe stumbled forward, tripping to the floor, her hair falling over her face.

  “What in God’s name is going on out here?”

  Velvet. Baritone. Power. Oliver. She didn’t look up, but closed her eyes and just let the sound of him reach all the way inside and touch her.

  “Zoe?”

  “You know her, Dr. Bradbury?”

  The little bit of horror in Red’s voice was almost worth the humiliation of looking up to meet his gaze.

  But the sight of those bottomless espresso eyes nearly flattened her again.

  “Good God,” he said, dropping to one knee and reaching out a hand. “What are you… here, get up.” His hand enveloped hers, that strong, masculine, capable hand that healed and heated her with one stroke of his fingers. “What are you doing—”

  She lifted an eyebrow as she stood to her full height, which was a few hairs shy of five-four, so not as impressive as her adversary and only chest high with Oliver. But, oh, what a chest it was. In a zillion-dollar white shirt so soft and expensive she imagined it was hand-loomed just to fit those incredible shoulders.

  “It’s easier to get into the Oval Office,” she said simply.

  He almost smiled, that hint of a smile that sparked the amber in his eyes. “You don’t need an appointment to see me.”

  Zoe was dying to give a dose of “Take that, bitch” to the receptionist, but Oliver still held her hand and inched her a little closer, dizzying her with that clean, smart, crisp smell of authority—and Oliver. “You do want to see me?”

  The littlest bit of uncertainty almost undid her. “I do.”

  I do. I do. God, how she’d once longed to say those words to him.

  But she said other words, and those had sealed her fate in a completely different way.

  But someone said “I do” to him. Someone with dark hair and designer bags and the stink of wealth and family. Big, powerful, undeniable family. The one thing Zoe could never offer him.

  She lifted her chin and his expression flickered, zigzagging somewhere between breathtaking and gorgeous as he studied her.

  “Come into my office,” he ordered, the words of a man who didn’t know the fine art of suggestion. She’d noticed that about him last night when he’d cleared the room with one barked order. Authority sat well on those broad shoulders.

  So Zoe followed.

  “Would you like some coffee? Water?” he asked, pausing before they took a step.

  “After what it takes to get in this place? Grey Goose, straight up.”

  He just nodded to the receptionist. “Tell Mr. Reddick I’ll be a few minutes longer.”

  Zoe blasted Red with a fake smile. “Thank you so much for your help. Attila, was it?”

  The other woman looked at Oliver, who bit his lip. “C’mon, Zoe. In here.”

  He gestured down the hall, staying one step behind her as they rounded a corner wordlessly. She brushed her hands over the wrinkled skirt. Her sandals were silent on plush carpet, but her heart thudded loud enough to reverberate through the hall of Dr. Bradbury’s superplush, mega-exclusive, you-can’t-have-an-appointment-for-a-year practice.

  His office was large, of course—everything about Oliver was oversized and substantial—but much warmer than the reception area. Cherry, leather, and an aroma of pine and comfort.

  She kept her back to him, taking one last inhale and reviewing her game plan.

  Which didn’t exactly exist for this fairly spontaneous visit. Should she plead? Demand? Blackmail? Whatever she did, she had to be strong and unyielding. She would not take no for an answer. She would not—

  “Turn around.”

  Melt.

  Yeah, she might do that. Because Oliver always melted her. Steeling herself, she vowed not to succumb. For this, Zoe had to be rock solid and ready to fight for what she wanted.

  Slowly, she turned, meeting the expression of a man who looked at her like he hadn’t eaten in days and she was a human cream puff.

  “How is the baby?”

  For a minute she couldn’t imagine what he was talking about. That was the thing about Oliver. He made Zoe forget her train of thought, her vows of secrecy, her life plans.

  “I assume mother and child are thriving?”

  Oh, that baby. The one he’d delivered last night. “He’s… perfect. Just, yeah. You left quickly and Lacey wanted to thank you.”

  A shadow of disappointment darkened his eyes, gone almost before she could see it. “Is that why you’re here?”

  She could say yes and be done with this. She had an excuse, and he’d never have to know her real reason.

  But then she couldn’t have the one thing she wanted most in the world.

  Damn it, why did he have to have the power? Why him, of all people?

  She blew out a breath, trying to remember a single word of the speech she’d practiced all the way across the causeway. Nothing. The queen of the smart-ass comeback had been rendered wretchedly wordless.

  “It was no big deal,” he said after a few too many seconds had passed. “I’ve done a few emergency deliveries in my career.” Then he took a step closer, dipping his head almost imperceptibly, searching her face. “Z
oe?”

  “Oliver, you are one of two people in the world who knows the truth about me.”

  It was his turn to blink, silent.

  “And once you said you’d do anything for me.”

  He had to work to swallow, no doubt remembering that he’d broken that promise.

  “Do you remember saying that, Oliver?” she pressed.

  “Of course.” He crossed his arms, his power stance. “What do you need, Zoe?”

  She took a slow breath, ready to jump. “My great-aunt, Pasha, is sick. Really, really sick. You know that she… she can’t exactly sally forth through the health-care system because she… can’t.”

  He just stared at her.

  “I need you to treat her. And never report it to anyone, ever.”

  His eyes narrowed as her demand sank in. “You’re asking me to—”

  “Do something illegal, yes. I know you are a big, important, successful doctor who shouldn’t take any legal risks because that would possibly hurt your amazing, booming practice, but I don’t care, Oliver, because after—”

  “Stop.” He was in front of her in one step, one hand on her shoulder.

  “Will you?” she asked, determined to get her yes before… anything else.

  He was close enough for her to feel his breath and the beating of his heart. “How could I do that?”

  “How? Quietly. Secretly. Under the table, off the books, and away from the prying eyes of your witchy staff.” She raised her chin, hating that he could feel her tremble. Let him think it was because she wanted his help, and not because every cell in her was screaming for him. For his mouth. For his body. For what they’d once had.

  “That’s how you could do it,” she finished. “And you will. Because you owe me, Oliver Bradbury.”

  “I don’t know if I can—”

  “Oliver!” She pushed his chest, fueled by frustration. “You have to!”

  “I’ll do what I can,” he said vaguely, easing her closer in a move that was intimate and natural and wrong. “Within certain parameters.”

  “So much for the Hippocratic oath.” She glanced down at the way his fingers stroked her arm, already taking ownership and pushing boundaries. “Look, even if you weren’t married, I’d stick nails in my eyes, cut off my fingers, climb into fire, and hang naked from a tree before I ever—”

  “I’m not.”

  She froze. “You’re not asking for sex?”

  “I’m not married anymore.”

  Oh. Oh.

  THE DISH

  Where authors give you the inside scoop!

  From the desk of Margaret Mallory

  Dear Reader,

  I’ve been startled, as well as delighted, by all the positive comments I’ve received regarding the deep male friendship—the “bro-mance”—among my four heroes in the Return of the Highlanders series. If my portrayal of male camaraderie rings true at all, I must give some credit to my younger brother, who always had a gang of close friends running in and out of our house. (This does not, however, excuse him for not calling me more often.)

  Looking back, I admire how accepting and utterly at ease these boys were with each other. On the other hand, I am amazed how they could spend so much time together and not talk—or talk only very briefly—about trouble in their families, divorces, or other important things going on in their lives. They were always either eating or having adventures. To this bookish older sister, they seemed drawn to danger like magnets. And I certainly never guessed that the boys who shot rubber bands at me from behind the furniture and made obnoxious kissy noises from the bushes when I went out on dates had anything useful to teach me.

  Yet I’m sure that what I learned from them about how male friendships work helped me create the bond among my heroes in the Return of the Highlanders. These four Highland warriors have been close companions since they were wee bairns, have fought side by side in every battle, and have saved each other’s lives many times over. Naturally, they are in each others’ books.

  Ever since Duncan MacDonald’s appearances in The Guardian and The Sinner, readers have been telling me how anxious they are for Duncan’s own book because they want to see him find happiness at last. We all love a tortured hero, don’t we? And if any man deserves a Happily Ever After, it’s Duncan. In truth, I feel guilty for having made him wait.

  Duncan, in THE WARRIOR (available now), is a man of few words, who is honorable, steadfast, and devoted to duty. With no father to claim him, he’s worked tirelessly to earn the respect of his clan through his unmatched fighting skills. His only defeat was seven years ago, when he fell hard for his chieftain’s beautiful, black-haired daughter, a lass far beyond his reach.

  He never expected to keep Moira’s love past that magical summer before she wed. Yet he accepts that his feelings for her will never change, and he gets on with his duties. When he and his friends return to the Isle of Skye after years spent fighting in France, every stone of his clan’s stronghold still reminds him of her.

  Moira’s brother, who is Duncan’s best friend and now chieftain, is aware that Duncan loves her, though they never speak of it. (Thanks to my brother and his friends, I do know it’s possible for them to not talk about this for seven years.) When the chieftain hears that Moira may be in danger, he turns to the man he trusts most.

  The intervening years have not made Moira trusting nor forgiving, and the sparks fly when this stubborn pair reunites. After the untimely death of her abusive husband, these star-crossed lovers must survive one dangerous adventure after another. They will find it even more daunting to trust each other and face the hard truths about what happened seven years ago.

  I hope you enjoy the romance between this Highland warrior and his long-lost love—and that my affection for the troublesome boys who grow up to be the kind of men we adore shines through in the bro-mance.

  I love to hear from readers! You can find me on Facebook, Twitter, and my website, www.MargaretMallory.com.

  From the desk of Jennifer Delamere

  Dear Reader,

  Have you ever wished you could step into someone else’s life? Leave behind your own past with its problems and become someone entirely different?

  I’m pretty sure everyone has felt that way at times. When you think about it, the tale of Cinderella is such a story at its essence.

  When I was in college, I saw a film called The Return of Martin Guerre, starring the great French actor Gérard Depardieu. It was actually based on true events in medieval France. A man has gone off to war but then stays gone for over a decade, essentially abandoning his wife. One day, though, he does return. The good news is that, whereas the guy had previously been a heartless jerk, now he is caring and kind. The wife takes him back, and they are happy. The bad news is that eventually it is discovered that the man is not who he claims to be. He is an impostor.

  Ever since I saw that movie, I have loved stories with this theme. One thing I’ve noticed is that so often in these tales, the impostor is actually a better human being than the person he or she is pretending to be. In the case of Martin Guerre, Gérard’s character wants the life and the responsibilities the other man has intentionally left behind. The movie was remade in America as Sommersby, starring Richard Gere and Jodie Foster. Richard Gere’s character grows and becomes a better man over the course of the events in the film. He does more for the family and community than the real Sommersby ever would have done.

  Please note that a sad ending is not necessarily required! There are lighthearted versions of this tale as well. Remember While You Were Sleeping, a romantic comedy starring Sandra Bullock? Once again, she was a better person than the woman she was pretending to be, and she was certainly too good for her fiancé, the shallow man she thought she was in love with. In the end, her decency and kindness won over everyone in the family. They were all better off because she had come into their lives, even though she had initially been untruthful about who she was. And—what’s most important for fans of romance!—true
love won out. While Sandra had initially been starry eyed over her supposed fiancé, she came to realize that it was actually his brother who was the right man for her.

  The idea for AN HEIRESS AT HEART grew out of my love for these stories about someone stepping into another person’s shoes. Lizzie Poole decides to take on another person’s identity: that of her half-sister, Ria, whom she had no idea existed until they found each other through an extra-ordinary chain of events.

  Lizzie is succeeding in her role as Ria Thornborough Somerville, a woman who has just been widowed—until she falls in love with Geoffrey Somerville, the dead husband’s brother. And aside from the fact that it would have been awkward enough to explain how you had suddenly fallen in love with your brother-in-law, in England at that time it was actually illegal: The laws at that time prevented people from marrying their dead spouse’s sibling. So Lizzie is left in a quandary: She must either admit the truth of her identity, or forever deny her love for Geoffrey.

  In a cute movie called Monte Carlo, a poor girl from Texas (played by Selena Gomez) impersonates a rich and snobbish Englishwoman. During her week in that woman’s (high-priced, designer) shoes, she actually ends up helping to make the world just a bit better of a place—more so than the selfish rich girl ever would have done. She finds a purpose in life and—bonus!—true love as well.

  Maybe I’m so fascinated by these stories because of the lovely irony that, in the end, each character actually discovers their true self. They find more noble aspects of themselves than they ever realized existed. They discover that who they are is better than anyone they could pretend to be. They learn to rise up to their own best natures rather than to simply be an imitation of someone else.

  As the popular saying goes, “Be yourself. Everyone else is taken.”

  From the desk of Roxanne St. Claire

  Dear Reader,

  I’m often asked if the fictional island of Mimosa Key, home to beautiful Barefoot Bay, is based on a real place. Indeed, it is. Although the barrier island is loosely modeled after Sanibel or Captiva, the setting was really inspired by a serene, desolate, undiscovered gem called Bonita Beach that sits between Naples and Fort Myers on the Gulf of Mexico.